


Equilibrium

by parrishthethought



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Bad Therapy, Child Neglect, Guidance Counselor Hannibal, M/M, Murder, Sugar Daddy Hannibal, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6692419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parrishthethought/pseuds/parrishthethought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The pendulum always swung one way or the other - he wanted everyone to go far away and leave him alone; he ached to be included in their lives and for them to shape his own. He could never find a balance."</p><p>A sixteen year old Will is struggling. Hannibal's going to help him the best way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equilibrium

Will sat at a desk in the corner of the room, close to the door so he could be among the first to leave when the class ended. He’d learned the value of being quick, in most things. It was the best lesson school had ever taught him. 

His backpack made up only a small portion of the weight he carried on his shoulders today. He’d been told an old family friend would be making an appearance in town, and the prospect made him anxious. He didn’t remember anything about the man. Would the man remember him? Would he think of Will as the wedge that drove apart two of his closest friends, or as the last remaining trace of their passionate but fleeting relationship? There was no way to know. Will exhaled slowly and rubbed at his tired eyes. With any luck he wouldn’t stop by the house for a visit, and could be avoided altogether. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Will steadfastly ignored it. He knew who it was. The text messages kept coming, as if their sender could actively see him ignoring them, and she could - she sat two rows behind him. 

“Will,” a girl with dark hair pulled up in a bun whispered, leaning over the side of her own desk. Will turned his head an inch, enough to acknowledge her, but not enough to actually look at her. 

“You said you could,” she continued. 

Will carefully slid the phone out of his pocket. As expected, the messages were all asking the same thing. Well, _some_ were messages, others were just a bunch of emojis followed by question marks. “Fine,” he whispered back.

With a satisfied smile, the girl leaned back in her chair and left Will alone for the rest of the class.

\----

The Graham’s new house was a single family bungalow. Will thought that was too kind a word for it, but it was more space than they’d had before, and there was a bathtub (even if you had to jiggle the faucet handle to get the water going), and there was a yard (even if the fence around it was falling apart) and there was a room just for him (even if you had to duck when you walked in so your head wouldn’t hit the sloped ceiling), so he could forgive it its faults. It was made of old brown brick, weathered but sturdy, with two windows in front and a single bare bulb hanging over the door. The wood porch groaned every time someone so much as put a foot on it, so it would require some work - an inconvenience for most people, a project for Will. 

His only complaint was not with the house itself, but with where it happened to be. He’d hoped it’d be somewhere more rural, farther apart from other people. But nope, it was smack dab in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. Moving through an endless parade of trailer parks had left Will feeling claustrophobic, and it didn’t seem like that was going to change any time soon. This small square of a backyard was the closest he’d get to sprawling fields, the roofs behind it the treetops of his dense forest. It was a poor substitute for the kind of life Will wanted to live, but as always, he’d make due with what he had. 

And what he had, today, was a plan that was likely to get him in trouble.

When Will got home from school, there was no car in the driveway. That was what he was counting on. He unlocked the door and slipped inside, heading straight for the kitchen, where he dropped his backpack down on the floor. He withdrew from it two empty water bottles and set them on the counter. For a long moment, he just looked at them. This was _so_ stupid. He opened the fridge anyway. 

It was easiest to start with the vodka. The bottle was already partially used, though, so he’d have to be careful to refill it to the same place. Will unscrewed the cap and set to work, siphoning away his father’s alcohol, watching it rise up behind the store-brand water labels. When he had what he needed, he held the open vodka bottle under the sink faucet and replaced what he’d taken with tap water. 

Next was the harder part, although it didn’t require as much work. It was harder because he knew his father would notice his beer missing, it was only a matter of _when_ he noticed. The older Graham was working longer hours this week, and as a result, didn’t have as much time to drink as he usually did. All Will had to do was replace them in the next day or two. That was manageable. It was just unsettling to hold them in his hand, to know something was liable to blow up in his face and to be willingly doing it anyway. One by one they went into the bag, nestled alongside the water bottles. 

Even more unsettling would be the front door creaking open, which it did, and the thud of familiar footsteps following, which they did. 

Will jerked at the sound, resisting the impulse to slam the fridge door shut. Instead he leaned further into the fridge, as if debating what to eat. His father came around the corner and huffed at him. 

“Don’t they feed you in that school? You’re always tearing through our stock the second you come home.”

Mr. Graham eyed the backpack on the floor, then stepped around it and seated himself at the table. He rubbed at his face the same way Will had earlier. A long day, then, despite his coming home early. Difficult customers. Will hated seeing his own mannerisms on his father, hated knowing how alike they could be in some aspects because it made him afraid that this was all that waited for him in the future. 

“Give me one of those, will you?” Mr. Graham gestured to the open fridge, partially blocked by his son’s body. He didn’t need to specify. 

Will grabbed one by its chilled neck and placed it casually on the table in front of his father, looking anywhere but down. The space between the remaining bottles he’d rearranged seemed obvious now, but it was too late to do anything about it. He watched his father pop the cap off his beer and take a swig. As soon as he lowered it, Will said, “I have to go over someone’s house to work on a group project. Can you bring me?” 

Mr. Graham shook his head. “I just got home from work, kid. Ask one of them to come get you.” 

“They won’t.” Not that Will would ever dare ask a classmate that.

“Then it looks like you’re walking.” A glance to the window. “Better start now if you want to get wherever you’re going before the sun goes down.” 

Will let out a put-upon sigh, but he was glad for the excuse to leave, and glad that he’d gotten the anticipated reaction. There was no suspicion on his father’s face, only relief that he wouldn’t have to get up again until he was good and ready. As Will reached down for his backpack and began to lift it, the bottles inside clinked together. His breathing stuttered and he straightened up as slowly as possible, fearing too much movement would create more noise. Mr. Graham did not notice his son frozen in place, however, as he was still looking out the window. Will kept the bag down by his side, taking pains not to jostle it too much, and left. 

\----

It was nearly dark when he got there, anyway. He double checked the address on his phone, then knocked on the door. 

“Hey! You showed up after all.” The girl from his class beamed brightly at the sight of him. Well, maybe not at him per say, with the way her gaze automatically went to his bag. 

“I got it,” Will confirmed, so she wouldn’t have to ask. 

“Awesome! Come with me, we’re all in here.” She opened the door wider and turned, hurrying up the staircase. 

“Actually, I-” his protest trailed off when she disappeared, so he followed, feeling a little awkward about going into someone else’s bedroom. It was such a personal space. Even if he wasn’t looking to know anyone intimately, it _was_ an intimate thing, being surrounded by the items that made up someone’s private life. He’d know too much the moment he set eyes on her wall, her bed, the knick-knacks she kept on her dresser. But they were waiting, so he gripped the strap of his backpack tighter and walked through the threshold. 

Two boys and another girl Will didn’t recognize were sitting on that bed (a twin with a black upholstered headboard, he could see her picking it out), and the conversation abruptly stopped, all heads swiveling towards them. The boy closest to the wall was the first to react, grinning widely. 

“He arrives! Sit, sit.” He nudged the other boy until he moved over, then patted the now empty space beside him. 

_‘They’re not your friends,’_ Will reminded himself, an uneasy smile on his face as he joined them. _‘It’s not you they’re excited to see.’_ He had something they wanted, simple as that. What Will had wanted, on the other hand, was to drop the requested items off as quickly as possible and get home. He sat anyway. 

The boy who had beckoned him slung an easy arm over Will’s shoulders, as if they’d been doing this forever. Will tensed under the touch, his hand instinctively raising to brush it off, but the arm fell away before he could. The boy seemed faintly surprised that his touch had not been a welcome thing, and honestly, Will could see why: he was all charm, his dark hair swept to one side, green-blue eyes crinkling with playfulness, the cadence of his accented voice soothing. This was a boy who’d be very persuasive in whatever career field he’d choose. Will wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Probably not for his colleagues. 

“Let him breathe, Dimmond,” the other girl said, rolling her eyes. She had a dusting of freckles across her nose and a flower-patterned scarf wound around her neck. She was seated cross-legged on the foot of the bed, pulling a stack of red plastic cups out of their packaging. “You’re Graham, right?” She asked without lifting her head. 

Will blinked. She wasn’t familiar to him in the slightest. “Yeah. Or, uh, just Will.” 

Dimmond’s hand was on him again, touching his elbow to get his attention. This Will allowed, and simply turned towards him curiously. “Well, if we’re sharing first names, I-” 

Abigail cut him off. “I think we had gym together once.” 

“We might have… I skipped a lot,” Will admitted, shooting Dimmond a flat look at the teasing sound that came from him. Dimmond just smirked, and so did the girl.

“I know. It sucked. I would’ve skipped too, if Marissa hadn’t been there to suffer through dodgeball with me.” She chucked a cup at their host, who laughed and ducked out of the way. 

“Suffer? I enjoyed it. And I’m still better than you, Abi.” 

Abigail cheerily flipped her off, and Marissa returned it with both hands. 

“I’m Anthony,” Dimmond finished in a rush by Will’s ear, before he could be interrupted again. “And I would very, very much like to see what’s in your sack.” He dropped his gaze to the bag Will now held in his lap. 

Will could feel his face turn bright red. “Here, just take it.” He shoved it into Anthony’s chest, ignoring his delighted look. 

“Just take it, huh? Not lacking in directness, are you?”

“You can see why we want to fill him with alcohol,” a new voice came from the other side of the bed. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll be a quiet drunk. Or pass out. Either works.” The blonde boy Anthony had pushed aside had been quiet himself until then, but had now shifted closer, peering over Anthony’s shoulder.

“Joke’s on you, I’ve been told I’m quite obnoxious when inebriated,” Anthony informed them, unzipping the bag. 

“Sure they didn’t just mean in general?” The other boy asked, then reached over Anthony to snag one of the water bottles. “Is this what I think it is? Oh, nice. The only v I’ll ever want.” He turned to Will and pointed at himself. “Jimmy Price. Thanks for letting this shitty week end on a high note, man.” He sunk back onto his heels with the bottle, waving a dismissive hand at Marissa’s insistent “That whole thing isn’t for you, you know!”.

“There’s not much variety,” Will apologized, feeling self-conscious as he watched them root through his backpack, “My dad tends to stick to what he knows.” 

“No one cares, Will,” Abigail assured. “Alcohol is alcohol.” If the night went well, they’d all be too smashed at the end of it to remember what they’d drank anyway. 

“That’s true,” Will conceded, and let himself relax a little. They may not be friends with him, but they obviously were with each other, and it was nice to be included in this comfortable atmosphere they created. He could soak up their joy and enthusiasm without necessarily having to be a part of it. “I’m more of a whiskey person myself,” he murmured. “At least I think I am. I haven’t gotten to try much of it.” 

“Where did you get whiskey?” Abigail quirked a brow.

“Uncle,” Will stated. “I was fourteen, he was exceptionally bad at hiding things.” 

“You little thief!” Anthony exclaimed, holding a beer in each hand. He looked proud, if anything. 

“Oh, if you want to hear about thieving, you should hear about the watermelon,” Will replied back. He was startled at how effortlessly it’d slipped out. 

“Do tell,” Marissa urged, plopping down next to Jimmy. 

Will smiled shyly and shook his head. “That’s a story for another day.” He wasn’t sure if he was being vague because he was uncomfortable with telling it to these near strangers, or because he wanted to have an excuse to talk to them again when this was over. 

Marissa shrugged and focused her attention on Anthony. “Are you going to open those, or are you going to sit there letting them get piss-warm in your hands?” 

Anthony clucked his tongue. “Bossy, bossy.” He took a bottle opener from his pocket and made quick work of them, then extended one to her, which Marissa gladly took.

“It’s my house, so yes, I _am_ the boss,” she declared, then took a long gulp from the bottle. She passed it to Abigail, who claimed, “Assistant boss,” and drank from it too. 

“Then what does that make us?” Jimmy complained. 

“Manservants,” Abigail quipped, to which Marissa nodded sagely. 

“You guys better not be roleplaying in there!” A guy’s voice shouted out from the hallway, making all of them jump. It was followed by a feminine laugh. Anthony made a face as beer sloshed onto his hand. 

“Afraid someone’s taking your place, Zeller?” Jimmy called back. “I love how we say manservant and you just appear. It’s like magic.” He hopped off the bed to get the door, eager to see the newcomers. Will shrank back, unsure who these people were and how this would change the dynamic in the room. Dimly he remembered who the real newcomer here was. 

It certainly wasn’t the tall, scruffy boy that Jimmy visibly perked up in the presence of, and it wasn’t the Korean girl with her arms full of mixers that was telling some sort of joke for only their ears.

“Did you make Beverly carry all of those?” Anthony asked incredulously, wiping the back of his hand with a tissue. 

“No, I’m carrying them because we _had_ a whole liter of Sprite, but _someone_ dropped and spilled it all over the driveway,” Beverly answered, bringing the mixers to Marissa’s desk. 

“Hey, it had condensation all over it, it was slippery!” Zeller looked to Jimmy for support, but Jimmy just hurried over to where the alcohol was being poured into cups, leaving Zeller to sigh and glance around the room. “Who’s that kid?” He asked bluntly. 

“Will,” That Kid answered.

Zeller lifted his hand. “Yo.” 

“He brought the alcohol,” Anthony supplied. “Our own little mobile bar.” 

Zeller grinned and said more enthusiastically, “Yo!”, while Beverly turned to give the curly-headed boy a thumbs up. 

Will knew the comment was supposed to be a sort of compliment, but it shamed him. Here was Will Graham, son of an alcoholic, whose only purpose in being at the party was to provide alcohol. He stared at the worn knee of his jeans. “Hey.” 

As he was self-reflecting, a cup was shoved into his hands. He raised his head to see Beverly watching him. 

“Take a sip of that and tell me what you think,” she prompted. “Are my mixing skills up to par?” She seemed confident that they would be, so Will didn’t know why she was asking. 

“I can’t, I’ve actually got to start heading back now. It’s already dark and I need to work in the morning. Sorry,” he said, standing up and handing it back to her, “I’m sure it’s great though. Next time.” He grabbed his backpack from the bed and began zipping it up. There wouldn’t be a next time. They would see each other in the hallways or in next year’s classes, and wave to each other, maybe, before moving on. And that was assuming the Grahams would still be residing here in a year, which, going by their track record, wasn’t a reliable assumption to make. 

Or, even worse, they could all text him every day. Marissa already had his number. They could inquire after him, invite him to things, pretend to be buddies, only to resent him the first time he denied their request for liquor. It had happened before and Will had no intention of reliving it. It was better if everyone was still amiable by graduation. 

He didn’t know why he did this to himself. He couldn’t get these friendships to grow organically, so he would force it, a time limit always hovering above his head, always rushing him to connect with someone before their next move out of state, to have at least one person to write and to miss and to miss him out of all those cities he’d ghosted through. He wouldn’t even realize what he was doing until the opportunity for friendship was gone, either ruined by his own actions or passed by due to his inaction. 

The latter happened whenever he withdrew entirely after a move, which sometimes happened if he knew they weren’t going to be in that particular location for long. It only served to make him more desperate after the next move, when he’d found his way back to his body and decided he didn’t want to face that solitude again. The pendulum always swung one way or the other - he wanted everyone to go far away and leave him alone; he ached to be included in their lives and for them to shape his own. He could never find a balance. 

“Aww man, who works on the weekends?” Beverly frowned, taking the drink back. “Now how am I supposed to get an unbiased opinion? These guys will just lie to me so I’ll keep pouring drinks for them, so they don’t have to do it themselves.” 

“That’s only 90% true!” Jimmy insisted. “By the way, you’re a great mixer, the BEST mixer, we love you.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Beverly scoffed, but her frown disappeared.

“You can’t leave!” Someone protested. It was Anthony, who had his arm draped around Abigail like he’d done with Will earlier. She didn’t seem to mind it too much, though that could have been because she was busy finishing off her beer. “I haven’t recited my poetry yet.” 

'Leave,' Abigail mouthed at Will, followed by, 'Hurry'. Anthony was rummaging inside his coat pocket with his free hand, and Will rose a brow, wondering if he was joking. Abigail didn’t seem to think he was. 

“You can tell me later,” Will promised, “Next time.” He said a quick goodbye to everyone, then showed himself out. When he reached the sidewalk, he looked back at the house, eyes fixed on the shapes moving behind the one lit window. _Go back inside, idiot,_ he told himself. Then he started the walk home.


End file.
